Amnesia
by tvjunkie0181
Summary: Clark tries to regain his memory...


Amnesia  
  
(Disclaimer: Smallville & its characters do not belong to me.)  
  
Prologue  
  
Clark Kent wondered if he should have been here. Sitting on a wobbly plastic chair. At the back of a small square room.  
  
The twelve other men in the room chatted and drank coffee. Thick black coffee that oozed like syrup from a gurgling silver Espresso machine.  
  
As they drank they cast shadows beneath the lone light bulb that hung from a black cord in the centre of the ceiling.  
  
They looked like regular teenagers. Chatting as regular teenagers chat. About girls. About cars. Fishing. Football. And as they chatted they smiled. Even laughed. Loud raucous laughter. Untamed. And that's what Clark couldn't figure out. Where is the sorrow? he thought. After all, that is why he was here. For the sorrow. The mourning. Trying to remember what had happened. Lana. The strength he hoped he would receive if he were to cry in the arms of other teenagers. Who were experiencing what he was experiencing.  
  
But there were no tears here. No crying. Only laughter. Chatter. Shadows. And the thick smell of coffee.  
  
Nobody wore black. Except for Clark. And except for the man at the front of the room. Father Adam Whelan. The parish priest at Smallville's church. It was Father Whelan now who moved to the centre of the room and held his right hand in the air. Palm fully extended. Stopping traffic in heaven. And when he spoke, his voice boomed. A deep voice that hit the ears like a hammer. Yet it was melody. Heavy metal. A voice that defied his short stature. Made him sound larger than life.  
  
"Take your seats gentlemen, take your seats," he instructed. And the boys sat. Silently. As if muted.  
  
Nobody spoke. Nobody crossed their legs. Nobody drank coffee.  
  
They simply sat.  
  
Eyes on Father Whelan.  
  
"Welcome gentleman. It is great to see you all here tonight. So many happy smiling faces. Faces that have frowned and cried for the last time. Strong faces."  
  
He emphasized the word 'strong'. Made a fist with his right hand and pulled the white knuckles into his chest.  
  
He ran his dazzling blue eyes over the men. Unblinking. Looking each up and down. From head to toe, and to head again.  
  
He stopped on Clark.  
  
"We have a newcomer among us. A man seeking comfort. Seeking direction. Seeking an end to his pain."  
  
He pointed at Clark. Right index finger fully extended. A point so sharp that Clark could mentally feel the finger pressed between his eyes.  
  
"Clark Kent, welcome," continued the priest with a sincere smile. "Welcome to our group. Welcome to the men who will help you overcome your grief and who will set you on a new path of enlightenment. Are you ready for enlightenment Clark Kent?"  
  
Clark didn't answer. Couldn't answer. He didn't seek enlightenment. Only comfort in the presence of others who felt as he felt now.  
  
"Then show us Clark Kent," Father Whelan boomed. Thin black eyebrows arched inward. "Show us your power. Show us your talent." Silence.  
  
The other men shuffled in their seats and faced Clark.  
  
Twenty-four eyes upon him.  
  
Staring at him.  
  
Through him.  
  
And Father Whelan.  
  
Pointing.  
  
Commanding.  
  
"Show us your power Clark Kent. Show us what you know."  
  
Clark felt a nervous ripple go through him. His heart beat in his head. Pushing out the sides of his temple. Throat dry and aching. Tongue course as sandpaper. Unsure of what to say. What to do.  
  
"Show us your power Clark Kent. Show us what you know," repeated Father Whelan.  
  
Clark shook his head. His bottom lip trembled.  
  
"You'd better tell him buddy," whispered the bald headed man who sat in front of him.  
  
"What power?" he mumbled nervously. "What do you mean?"  
  
Father Whelan reached behind his back. Eyes not leaving Clark's.  
  
With a snap of his arm he brought his hand in front of his body again and held in it a glistening silver revolver Colt .44 Magnum. Clark froze. Felt his whole body tense. The barrel of the gun was aimed between his eyes. The very same place where he had felt Father Whelan's finger mentally digging into his forehead.  
  
"Please," Clark stuttered frantically. His breathing irregular. "Please, no."  
  
Father Whelan's thin lips arched into a smile. His blazing blue eyes ate into Clark's eyes. And the gun stood steadily in his hand. As if he had held a gun a dozen times before.  
  
"Tell me Clark Kent," he said softly, almost a whisper now. "Tell me your power."  
  
Clark stared at the priest. Eyes wide, face white with fear. Fists clenched. Legs shaking. Head pounding.  
  
"Tell him," urged the bald headed man with pleading eyes. "Come on, just tell him."  
  
Clark looked at the priest nervously. Licking dry lips with a drier tongue.  
  
"I don't know..."  
  
BANG!  
  
The sound of the gunshot reverberated with a deafening bang that jolted the other teenagers out of their chairs.  
  
Coffee spilled on trousers.  
  
Hairs on back of necks stood on end.  
  
Ears rang.  
  
Father Whelan raised the smoking barrel to his lips. Blew gently. Lowered the weapon and tucked it back into his pants.  
  
He cast his gaze over the room once more. And those eyes no longer dazzled.  
  
Now those eyes were cold.  
  
He stopped his eyes on Clark again.  
  
On Clark's body.  
  
Lying motionless on the ground. 


End file.
